


Posting Letters

by SfrogPlus



Series: Posting Letter [1]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Feelings, Eating Disorders, Fainting, Gift Fic, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Letters, M/M, Oma Kokichi-centric, POV Oma Kokichi, Post-Game(s), Sad Oma Kokichi, Self-Hatred, Sick Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Weird Plot Shit, bridges, mail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SfrogPlus/pseuds/SfrogPlus
Summary: He would wake up sometimes, somedays he wouldn’t, sometimes he would just stay in bed until he heard those hollow knocks on the door that were most likely from Akamastu or the few others that cared enough to not let him jump into the fire he created.He would force himself to stand up, to stretch and rub water in his eyes. When his eyes followed his shadow to the mirror, he tried to not notice the dark bags underneath his eyes, how pale he looked these days. To not notice how frail he was now, how much he wanted to turn away. And then he would, he had to eventually.Then Ouma would change his clothes to those disgusting white clothes with kid-like buttons and put on a horrid smile. That old straightjacket he would wear during the game… The straightjacket he took off to die. To finally die, but that was a lie. Or maybe not.Ouma went off, exploring the familiar ruins of the academy- They weren’t destroyed, just slowly crumbling away from age, and then then it would be repaired somehow when they all went to sleep. Sometimes he would go to the forest near the academy and hide until he eventually woke back up in his bed, or try to look for a knife in the kitchen.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi (hinted)
Series: Posting Letter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720597
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	Posting Letters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aupexx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aupexx/gifts).



> Please read the endnotes.

O

Kokichi Ouma had a schedule. Neat and simple. He had a very neat schedule that didn’t exist.

He would wake up sometimes, somedays he wouldn’t, sometimes he would just stay in bed until he heard those hollow knocks on the door that were most likely from Akamastu or the few others that cared enough to not let him jump into the fire he created.

He would force himself to stand up, to stretch and rub water in his eyes. When his eyes followed his shadow to the mirror, he tried to not notice the dark bags underneath his eyes, how pale he looked these days. To not notice how frail he was now, how much he wanted to turn away. And then he would, he had to eventually.

Then Ouma would change his clothes to those disgusting white clothes with kid-like buttons and put on a horrid smile. That old straightjacket he would wear during the game… The straightjacket he took off to die. To finally die, but that was a lie. Or maybe not.

Ouma went off, exploring the familiar ruins of the academy- They weren’t destroyed, just slowly crumbling away from age, and then then it would be repaired somehow when they all went to sleep. Sometimes he would go to the forest near the academy and hide until he eventually woke back up in his bed, or try to look for a knife in the kitchen.

Sometimes he would bump into the other students, sometimes his heart would stop when he saw Amami, and remember the look on his face when he died, or the betrayed look on the face of Gokuhara. They wouldn’t talk much to each other, a simple wave, and Ouma annoying them so much they would eventually leave. It was always like that, though Saihara often was found in his room somehow where Ouma was forced to fall asleep with him in his room, and Tojo gave him Grape-Kiwi Panta from time to time. Akamatsu often tried to talk to him, though he ignored her. Shirogane would glare at him.

Ouma tried to fall asleep when the day ended, reminding himself nobody was dead, there was no more Monokuma, they were all alive, but still trapped in this horrible, horrible place with those horrible memories. They were trapped for being traumatized by the events. His life was a mess, DICE wasn’t contacting him anymore, everything felt like it was spinning around and around.

Maybe he would check the mailbox from time to time, once every month, and he couldn’t help but notice his lips slowly turning upward, into a tight, punctured smile. Then he frowned.

* * *

“Ugh…” Ouma groaned, shuffling underneath the thin sheets of his bed, wet from sweat. It was to be expected, after all, since it was summer. Ouma couldn’t remember what day it was, or what year, or if he was hungry. He knows it’s been around Maybe he was going to die of thirst- No, nobody would let him. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t die. 

“What..?”

Somebody was staring at him, eyes glazed over and arm wrapped around Ouma tightly. Golden eyes, tired eyes, loving eyes. Navy hair floated above his head, a thin frame. The man paused like a deer in headlights.

This happened often, Saihara coming to his room, and when Ouma returned Saihara was asleep in his bed. Ouma knew he was probably the one who brought him back when he tried to fall asleep in the forest. The slight warmth helped in ever so slightly fall asleep. But whenever Ouma woke up again, Saihara was gone.

“A-Ah,” Saihara stuttered, “Hi, Ouma… Uh- I’ll leave.” Ouma rubbed his eyes as Saihara’s arm left, and he couldn’t help but tug on it. Ouma shook his head, relaxing back into his pillow. “...Huh?”

“Nah… Can you, stay here?” Ouma mumbled, his voice sore. He didn’t mind. Nobody minds. Nobody really minds how some of them seemed to break- Seems to have stopped functioning fully. Saihara broke as well, stopped communicating a bit to the others. He was better though, he was slowly being fixed like a broken machine. 

A smile fell upon Saihara’s face. It looked a little forced, a little sad, very mixed. “Get up then, it’s July 21st.” Ah. July 21. Ouma remembers that day, he was born that day, he thinks... Probably. Ouma can’t help but wonder if Saihara knew that.

“Hm…” Ouma groaned. “Do you know what today is, Saihara-chan?” He won’t tell him, he’ll never tell him. Last year, Ouma couldn’t remember if it’s been that long. Saihara rubbed his shoulder, almost like Ouma was a cat, and Ouma pushed Saihara’s hands away.

Saihara gave him a confused look, his hands floating in the air for a second. He went stiff. _That’s better,_ Ouma flashed him a wide grin, slowly and slowly crumbling away as more seconds passed. He forced himself to be himself, again- Or whoever he was meant to be, whoever they all saw him as. Ouma HAD to pretend, to make himself feel better, safer, like he was protected by an invisible wall, a wall trapping him. He knew he was slowly dying from all of this, all of everything.

He knew he was famous, everybody, Gokuhara to Akamatsu was famous, and he was as well. And he was surrounded, given envelopes every week, every day, every minute from that red mailbox in that stupid small room that was too stuffy. He was hated, loved, he was famous, yet so alone. So, so alone and broken and breaking this second, and nothing even mattered to him anymore.

Maybe if he put on one more mask, put on one more grin, pretended once more- Maybe then, just maybe everything would feel okay again... It never worked, but that was fine as well. Everything was going to be just _fine_.

“What are you doing here anyway, Saihara-chan?” Ouma muttered, his voice felt scratchy, his arms sore. He felt overly warm, like he was burning up. That didn’t matter. It was going to fade anyway. “Why are you always here?” Straight to the point. No jokes, no lies. It wasn’t like him.

“Uh-” Saihara glanced around, with glowing silver eyes. It was silver now, silver, gold, silver, gold, silver, gold- “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His words were quick, scrambled. He sat up, “I- I have to go now.”

He ran out of the room, and Ouma couldn’t help but notice he was healthier now. Probably from all that training he was doing with Momota- who now didn’t have that fake sickness, or whatever was happening to his body, and Harukawa. That was good, right? He was doing better, he was working out, he was figuring his life with the others. Leaving Ouma all alone.

Ouma heard a click from the outside and realized Saihara had a key of his own to his room. _Saihara, Saihara, Saihara_. That word got stuck on Ouma’s tongue when he stopped talking.

Ouma melted back into his covers, his somewhat cold, damp covers. Ouma was safer here, where the sunlight barely fell on his skin from the small window, where the bed made shifting sounds as he shuffled with the thin covers. It was safe here, better. No statues hung on top of his bed that would keep him awake, no boxes filled with stupid masks and masks and masks of paper with one idea straight. No desks with evidence from the trials, no memories in this room. But somehow, they were still full of them.

Ouma felt sick from just being in the room but felt safe. He didn’t feel good, but he was pretty sure he didn’t feel bad either. A sick feeling formed in him, he felt like he was going to die, going to barf up blood, like he was slowly being crushed under something he chose to be in.

Ouma dragged himself to the toilet and barfed. He felt the need to shower.

* * *

Ouma’s stomach gurgled some monstrous noise, his head spun around like he was on a flaming tightrope, his arms were sore and restless, and his legs were slowly failing to function. Was that normal? Who knows? It’s the only feeling he has right now, so it might as well be.

A yell. Somebody was calling out for him. It was loud, too loud. It reminded him of something he couldn’t remember, or maybe he did. Maybe it reminded him of himself, maybe it reminded him of DICE. He missed them, but he didn’t anymore. But that wasn’t true. But it wasn’t a lie either.

Maybe they weren’t even calling for him, maybe he was hallucinating, maybe he was dreaming. Maybe there wasn’t- Ouma turned his lithe frame to look at who was calling him. Nobody. Right, nobody knew how to access the roof. Only him, he, and himself. _Right._ He was all alone on the roof, the fresh air strangling him.

He can’t remember why he came up here, what he was doing, why he was still here in the academy. His head felt hazy like he was going to faint. Perhaps that would be better. He lays down, on the hard, somewhat warm floor, his head resting on the blanket he got. 

Everything seems to be spinning, around and around, and Ouma tried to count sheep. Sheep, sheep, sleep. Sheep rhymes with sleep. Is that why they call sleep sheep? Maybe, maybe, maybe… Who knows? Ouma certainly doesn’t.

“Ouma.” Ah. It’s Amami, still alive, still breathing. His hair is a little wild, as always a bright pale green. His eyes slightly tilted, the same color as his hair. The same as always, the exact same. “Are you okay? Why are you on the roof?”

“...” No words came out of Ouma’s mouth. He tightly shut his eyes, the bright sun shining onto him. “...” No words. Flashbacks of the pink blood flowing from Amami flashed in his head, and he covered his eyes with his arm. He probably looked pathetic now, resting here on the roof.

“Ouma? How long ago did you eat?” Amami’s voice sounded worried, he sounded like he was worried. For him. That wasn’t too much of a surprise. Amami once told him, when they were close and before Amami died, that he was like his sisters. 

“...”

“Ouma, please come down. Saihara, Akamatsu, Gokuhara, Momota- almost everybody has been looking for you.” Amami said, “I didn’t even know there was a roof here... Huh, I guess you learn something new every day.” He chuckled, carefree, _so carefree_. Ouma thinks he’s lucky, to have died first. He was spared the pain, the memories, he was spared everything.

“C’mon, Ouma. Follow me.” Amami muttered, pulling Ouma up. Ouma didn’t argue, nor did he say anything. There really was no point. Maybe if he put on one more mask, if he was able to pretend once more… Maybe… Ouma felt like barfing again, a flinch coming to him.

“...Ouma. Please, I need to make sure you’re okay…” Amami whined, “Please.” It was almost like he was begging now. Ouma couldn’t help but feel himself going insane. Amami was right, he needed to make sure Ouma was okay, that he was _fine_. Ouma can’t help but wonder if he was or not.

Probably not.

A giggle fell out of Ouma’s mouth. “I can’t believe you actually just asked me that. Who do you think I am, my beloved Amami-chan?” He sat up, leaning forward, hands behind his back. Amami hated this nickname. Because he watched the videos of Ouma and Saihara. He saw the videos, just like everyone else. Ouma called- used to call him that too.

“Please,” Amami pleaded, “Just- Just come. I won’t force you. But… We’ll be waiting.” Amami widened his eyes, waiting for a reply. Ouma put his hands behind his back and tried to grin. He wonders how horrible he looks, how disgusting it is to look at something that had to do with the final game of Danganronpa.

Ouma recited the lines, “I stole your heart now, so now I’m satisfied!” Amami stopped walking to the door, glancing at Ouma. His face seems torn, like he’s slowly breaking from just being close next to Ouma. That makes sense. Though it really doesn’t.

“...Go tell that to Saihara when you come down, Ouma.” Amami bitterly smiles, “Not me.”

* * *

It was dark, unsurprisingly, very very dark. As expected of the trial room. Memories rushed back to Ouma’s head, as the elevator stopped, making an awful clashing sound. It was so eerie here to be here alone as the metal elevator, descending deeper into the abandoned place where he remembers everyone died.

Thoughts with what he remembers fill his head, and he can’t help but have a sick feeling in his stomach, something slowly crushing his body, hands choking him. Hands. When Ouma turns, there’s nobody there. He really is slowly going insane, isn’t he?

Thoughts with what he doesn’t want to remember fill his head as he exits the elevator. A voice echoes in him, a wild giggle, and Ouma can’t breathe anymore. Panic fills his mind, and Ouma almost barfs when he remembers the look on Akamatsu’s face from the first trial, strangled by the forced leadership on her, the people all expecting as they follow her with empty thoughts.

Thoughts with what he doesn’t want to think about start to fill his head, feeling up his neck. Nobody’s there, but he feels sick. He feels like he’s being watched. He’s felt that way ever since he knew somebody _was_. A shiver sends itself up Ouma’s back as he gulps. He doesn’t want to think about it, how empty their cheers were for Tojo as she tried to leave. Like always, she was almost like a doll, that execution wouldn’t have happened if only she didn’t climb up. 

He tried not to think of any of these things, he doesn’t even remember how he got up here. His stomach feels so empty, his arms feel so empty, his head feels like a haze, everything seems to be spinning up and down, left to right. Lies and truths. Is this how Shinguji felt when he was stuffed into a boiling pot, dying in almost a cartoonish way? Is this how Chabashiro felt when she realized she was going to die? Is this how Yonaga felt when she heard the sound of the Ultimate’s Artist door’s unlock? _Ah_ , Ouma grips tighter at his left arm. 

He didn’t realize this before, but he’s scared. So scared of this room still, and he doesn’t know why. He knows it was just a game, it was all for entertainment- After all, that’s what he was born for, his entire life. Entertainment, fun and laughs underneath masks and masks and slowly going insane. Ouma can’t help but wonder what were Iruma’s last thoughts as he put off his mask and frowned at her, one last time. Though Iruma doesn’t remember, none of them try to remember how they died. It’s all so painful. Though Gonta can’t remember, as he revealed right before he died… When Ouma tried to barf, nothing came out.

Oh well. Ouma glances at that red throne _he_ would always sit at. Ouma goes to his position, the place where it had his name, a picture of him, crossed out with pink marker, like it was all a joke, like his life was a joke. Really, that almost seemed true to him. He doesn’t look up from his position.

He tries to laugh, but nothing comes out. Of course. His throat feels dry like he was being choked, almost. Ouma can’t laugh, he can’t smile, another shiver is sent up his spine as he hears the elevator head back up. He guesses it was all timed, guesses _he_ knew when the trials would stop. But really, that was just an assumption.

Ouma wonders if that is how Saihara felt as he argued with his friends it wasn’t him that killed Momota but the other way around. He wonders how mixed Saihara felt, how distorted his heart must’ve been. Ouma thinks that was when Saihara must have broken. He hid it quite well.

Ouma looks up, and sees someone. Maybe it’s for the feeling of the lack of sleep, even though that’s one of the only things Ouma has done these days, or from how his stomach felt like it was turning his insides around, or from the fact Ouma only has been drinking Panta or the fact he knows he’s slowly and forever turning insane. But he sees himself, his pathetic, disgusting, arrogant self.

It laughs at him, something Ouma couldn’t do, it throws lies and jokes at him even though Ouma can’t hear them, something Ouma couldn’t do, it _still_ pretends, something Ouma forgot how to do. Ouma could feel them, wet tears running down his pale cheeks as one more time, _one last time, please-_

The world feels like it’s churning, breaking apart. His voice is shaking, and it doesn’t even sound like Ouma. He knows, Ouma knows that he already knows this, the reflection of himself already knows this, but he tells it to himself one last time. Reassurance, one could say, but to Ouma, it felt like the only way to not faint right now alone in the trial room where nobody will ever find him again. He doesn’t want to die today, Ouma can only guess. “Hey,” He starts. He didn’t expect actual words to fall out of his own mouth.

It doesn’t respond.

And then Ouma wakes up. _Again_. Another day, another dream. He can’t remember what happened yesterday, he _can’t remember_ when he got back or how, or the disappointment on Tojo’s face as she brought in a piece of cake silently. He doesn’t wish to remember.

The cake is stale, and it just makes him more hungry. 

* * *

There was a separate room in this shallow academy that wasn’t there during the game, a small room next to the casino, not flashy, and could barely be seen through the trees surrounding it. In reality, it was more of a bridge, leading to the building.

Ouma found it first but didn’t bother to tell anyone, for the sake of their minds. It was a short bridge, leading to a small white boxed room, and inside were mailboxes. Many, many mailboxes. All for the sixteen of them. The only communication they had to the outside world. He knows that after a while, Harukawa saw him go there, so he stopped going there as often.

And here he was now, looking up at the building with a pale face. He didn’t feel well these days, he felt like he was slowly being strangled, but when he would feel his neck, there would be nothing.

The bridge shook a little as he crossed, but too tall for him to fall off. He once tried to fall off, but he couldn’t in the end. The river flowing underneath seemed to lead nowhere, and it didn’t have a bottom. If he fell, his organs would jump and he would just suffer. Maybe that’s what he wants, maybe that’s what he deserves.

Ouma shakes his head, Going inside the building and taking a breath. It was stuffy here, for some reason. It smelled like nothing, and plants were decorating the corners and on top of the silver locker-like mailboxes, but it was hard to breathe. It was hard not to tear up and want to curl up and go and jump off into the boundless river.

His mailbox was the eighth one. In order of Akamatsu, Yonaga, Gokuhara, Yumeno, K1-B0, Momota, Tojo, and then him. It was always like this, in that exact order, or rather, no particular order. There was no rhyme or reason for this order. 

There was no lock, no key to the mailbox, so anybody could have stolen from it- Ouma’s head couldn’t wrap around why anybody would do that, but then again, he wasn’t able to think right now.

A total of fifty envelopes, Ouma quickly counts. Or maybe he messed up, maybe he didn’t ever count and was guessing. Not like Ouma would lie to himself, as there wasn’t a reason to anymore. But that was a lie as well. As well? Was there another lie? Ouma’s head was jumbled up. His pale hands picked them up as he quickly sat down on the floor, soundless. 

So many envelopes, so many people, so many… Ouma couldn’t help but wonder how many of them actually cared for him. If he was the Ultimate Gambler, he would say 0. But he’s not. He’s not an ultimate anymore either, whether he tells himself that or not.

None from DICE, as always. Ouma wonders if they have gone and forgotten them, or if the Danganronpa Company made sure they would stop arriving. Who knows? Certainly not the sick, pale boy as he languidly went through every single one. Ouma wonders if they actually know how he feels, wasting his stupid life away in here, painfully and slowly, like how one would torture a prisoner. 

Ah.

It’s this person again. Ouma can’t help but think that they were just trying to spam mail at him, writing over and over again, if they were just posting it over and over again because they were bored. They went by that recognizable name of SHSL_SHITPOSTER. It suited the mail part with the posting, Ouma notices. He was posing as an Ultimate, so… Ouma’s head hurt just thinking about another killing game, and he felt like barfing again.

He ripped the top of the white envelope carefully. He keeps this… SHSL_SHITPOSTER’s envelopes, just for safekeeping. He hides them underneath his clothes lined up in his closet- Not particularly his clothes, but rather the clothes he was given and forced to wear. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s because their envelopes are written about their life, slowly advancing and getting better and getting worse over and over, and Ouma can’t help but find it somewhat addicting, to take a peek into someone else’s life.

_Ah_ , Ouma felt disappointment arise in himself. It wasn’t about their life, it was about him. Stupid little him with his awful growing purple hair he tried to once cut, with his awful thin, small frame, and his stupid babyface, and how sick he looked and felt.

He started reading the letter anyway. Curiosity killed the cat.

_“Dear Kokichi Ouma,_

_I don’t even think you’re real, maybe you were just fake, just not… existent. If you existed, you would live in Japan. My first language is Russian, and my second language is English, so that’s why I’m writing this in English because I heard somewhere online you can read English. Though I repeat that in every letter I write to you. I just felt like writing to you, for some reason. Oh yeah, Happy Birthday Kokichi, I can’t really send you a whole cake, but I can give you… uh, an envelope! A free, blank envelope. Please write to me back, if you do exist. I just need to know you do, to know that you’re… reading this, and no weirdos are reading this._

_You probably don’t know this, but... I don’t know. Writing to you just sort of makes me feel like you do exist, like you… I don’t know. I really, really don’t know. If you do exist, I just want to tell you that you’re a pretty cool person- Even if you don’t exist. Rather… a wonderful character. I’d be happy to be your friend if you were real, if you existed._

_Uh- I’m not sure quite what I should write… I guess I’ll like, contact you later I guess? Haha…_

_From SHSL_SHITPOSTER.”_

A small smile formed on his face, but quickly faded. Ouma pulled the crumbled extra envelope out of the envelope. Ouma took in a small breath as he looked at the envelope, the address on it, and glanced at the empty box that Ouma read as someplace he could send mail.

His stomach gurgled as he brought it back with him to his room. Ouma had a small idea in his empty, pinching head, and he wasn’t sure quite what to do with it. Maybe he’ll eat, to make his broken head work, and to stop his stomach from aching.

* * *

It’s been a long time since he’s been in the Dining room, and he isn’t sure just how much. He never ate well there, being surrounded by people, their eyes carefully following as he lifts up his spoon and forces it into his mouth, as he swallows it and barfs straight after when he dashes to the toilet. 

Ouma doesn’t expect almost everybody to be there, nor did he expect to be overwhelmed with feelings and pain, running in his blood and slowly killing him, to want to choke himself and jump off the roof. He thought he was over it, that there was no feeling that could overcome how much he wanted to kill himself- to leave, but he was _wrong_.

There were twelve of them, twelve of them here. Twelve too much for Ouma’s liking, too many memories, too much hatred. They seemed fine themselves like they weren’t in a place where _he_ gave them the flashback lights. As if there was no killing game.

Ouma can’t help but envy that a little, biting his lip.

There’s a small glance between them, Ouma can’t help but see, It’s small, barely there, yet Ouma can’t help but turn his back and want to leave. Tomorrow, tomorrow he will try again. He feels light-headed as well, like he’s about to faint at any second, he needs to go to sleep now, he guesses. 

Something pulls on his arm, something stronger than him, something warm, melting into his skin. It feels as if it’s burning him alive. And Ouma knows who does that- He turns around, eyes trying to carefully watch every movement Saihara made.

“Ouma.” Flashing gold, Saihara’s eyes coolly watched him flinch, and Ouma couldn’t help but look behind Saihara. People, so many people watching him with their stupid, stupid little thoughts and stupid eyes that bite into his skin.

Ouma didn’t respond.

“Stay here,” Saihara’s hand didn’t shake off, and Ouma couldn't help but feel the warmth soak into his arm before Saihara let go. Saihara looked a little desperate, a little too desperate. “Please.”

Ouma felt like he was going to faint at any second. Like he was going to get crushed by something heavy in any second, like he was going to get strangled by sharply painted red fingers and go drown in a lake. Everything was spinning so fast, too fast. 

He could hear a voice calling out to him again, so close yet so far. He tried to follow blindly but it leads nowhere in the end, though that could be a lie. He knew that voice, it was- Ah, actually, it would be better if he didn’t remember.

“Ouma! My god, he’s still the same…” Space. It reminded him of space. Somewhere he will never go to, and someplace where it could never reach him. That didn’t matter anyway though, because it was space. An impossible, yet a seemingly easy place for Ouma to reach up and grab. It was that easy, for him to just turn away and focus on the more important things in life, rather than staring up and admiring it. He didn’t like space anyways, it was always… Too much for Ouma to take in.

Then his head snaps and he figures out the voice is coming out of Momota.

“That’s wrong, he _did_ change,” Saihara argues calmly, “I could debate with you over that subject.” Memories Ouma doesn’t want to remember fill his head, and as much as he wants to stuff them back down, they arise within him and make him and make him

“Ugh, please don’t. That’ll bring back bad memories.” Is that all they were to Momota? Bad memories? Just another thing in the past he could get over? “Do you _have_ to still go into detective mode every time we say anything about him?” 

“B-But it’s the one thing that- Nevermind.” Saihara quickly finishes, “Anyway, what did you plan on saying to Ouma anyway? It seems like he’s… too busy staring at his food.” Ah, right. He was trying to eat. To not face-plant himself into whatever this was- He couldn’t see clearly enough to clear the blurry lines in his head. Ouma could feel his hand move to the glass next to the food placed in front of him.

He could feel eyes on him, mutters. That was how it was supposed to be, Ouma guesses. He has a hard time remembering the flow he worked his life before Ouma died, the crushing pain stabbing into his skull, his ribcage, and the feeling of crying out in despair before drowning in his own blood in a horrible smelling cape.

“Huh- Hold on, that’s Saihara’s cup! Ouma, stop drinking Saihara’s water. See, he hasn’t changed at all!” Momota was meant to be the hero, the hero that saved them all. The cheating, easy-going Momota, and the antagonist to kill them all. A monster, a real-life monster. A 

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The antagonist- that’s such a funny word, really. It almost seemed to spin everything up and down, left to right as Ouma felt something pat his shoulder. “Ouma?”

Slowly, so very slowly spinning up and down. Ouma can feel himself growing tired, even though he slept the entire morning. Maybe he should sleep some more, to the point where he never wakes up again. Ouma wonders how that will help, but shifts that thought out his mind. It really didn’t matter if he was slowly breaking here, or in his mind, or to them. Nothing really mattered much anymore.

“I don’t think he’s o-okay. Ouma? Ouma, please answer.” Saihara calls out- Or whoever is calling out to him. All the voices were mixing together, gathering into a tight ball and squeezing at his neck. He didn’t know if he stopped breathing, or what happened, but something snapped.

And suddenly, everything was better. Maybe this was a dream, another dream for him to fade into his subconscious even more. Ouma’s head rushed a pinching headache, and he couldn’t help but try not to shout, to break anything.

“Huh?” Ouma took a quick glance around, just to make sure that he was still here, there, wherever he was at the beginning. Bright colors flashed in his head, chipped vines still growing, he was in the dining room. There were twelve, twelve of them here. Carefully painted eyes with glowing colors, staring him down like the monster he was, gathered around him like they were burning him like a cursed witch.

Words gather at his throat, spilling out like a crawling spider trying to jump out its web. The web being the frail little boy with his stupid broken hopes. Ouma. “It’s a lie-”

Pain. So much pain, pinning his hollow stomach and making everything fade into black and white, hero and m̗̳̪͇͍̖o̴̺̬̥n͕̰̳̭ṣ͇̦̫͖ṭ̙̞͚̼͉e̜̖̘̤̹r̳̳͜, killer and victim, lies and truths and yet still too much for them to take in. 

“Ouma!?” Ah. He remembered that voice, it was Saihara. Saihara, Saihara, Saihara. Ouma decided that it was a stupid name. A stupid name that held no meaning, because it held too much meaning. Was that how things worked? If somebody didn’t want to believe it, then it would turn false, right? Or maybe that was wrong. Maybe everything he said was wrong because everybody believes it was all a lie.

“Why did you punch him, Momota? He clearly wasn’t okay!” Amami. Amami was defending him. Ouma can’t help but wonder how the game would have gone if somebody else died first. “Ouma- Oh god… Ouma.”

Everything is slowly fading to the point he can’t think anymore, drowning in his class’s voices. Or rather, the people surrounding him. Right. He had to keep reminding himself they weren’t- His head faints into white. A soft, articulated white far away again.

“I didn’t know he was going to full-on faint!” Momota. _Loud. so very loud._

“W-What’s happening?” Gokuhara. _Worried. Too worried._ “Is Ouma alright?”

“Ah, please back away from Ouma. I need to check on him.” Tojo. _Caring, caring for me._

“Is he going to be okay?” Akamatsu, _with so much death. The first death._

“Uh- Can’t you all be quiet? You’re giving me a headache…” Iruma, entering the room. _So much death._

“Neh!? Can’t you see Ouma just fainted?” Yumeno yelled. _I can’t see-_

And then Ouma wakes up. _Again_. Another day, another dream. He can’t remember what happened yesterday, he _can’t remember_ when he got back or how, or the silent worry that spread across everyone’s face as he was carried out last afternoon, or the long rest he took after, drowning into his sleep.

Ouma can’t help but feel a little bit _safer_. And he doesn’t quite understand why.

* * *

The letter was written. Ouma slips it into the small slit of the box and starts to leave. Small sounds drip in his mind, and _he_ ’s there again. Ouma swears he sees himself for a second, staring at him with expecting eyes.

Ouma wonders how long he’s been watching Ouma, how long he has waited. Ouma knows he’s slowly changing himself, his present self crumbling away like a crushed cookie taken away from a child, distorting into somebody else. He feels like he shouldn’t mind, that it would be better, after all, healthier even.

He doesn’t know why he’s slowly breaking himself, changing very slowly like a caterpillar. Ouma doesn’t know, though for once, he doesn’t mind. A small laugh comes out of him, as he stares at his reflection across the bridge.

Maybe they would like him better if he lied, maybe they would like him better if he only told them what they wanted to hear, maybe they would finally hate him if he lied one more time, maybe they would hate him once he killed somebody and lived to face the Earth, he wondered that maybe somebody would remember his true mask, maybe they would want him dead once he stops lying, maybe it would be too late to go back.

Even after the game, he wondered, thinking, ran his head through so many failures. Maybe they would stop noticing him once he stops showing up for dinner, maybe once he finds places where nobody can go, maybe when he kills himself, maybe they would stop trying to place their trust in him once he lies, lies once more- _Just one more time_. Ouma feels like he’s going insane.

“One more time, one last time.” He can hear himself, smiling that bastardly grin and hands hanging behind his head. “Won’t you play a game with me?” His reflection reminds him of himself- Obviously.

“One more time, one last lie to go tell yourself,” His voice was so annoying, so high pitched, so happy. Ouma knew it was fake though, it was always fake. But that was a lie. “Won’t you lie to them once more, just for the sake of it? Heh, But I know you’ll agree anyways, after all, that’s all you can ever do with me. Agree, agree, lie, and agree.”

Ouma was wrong. He hasn’t changed in the slightest since the game began. He was still on a killer flaming tightrope which he can jump off at any second, maybe SHSL_SHITPOSTER expanded it though, maybe the relief somebody was out there with their own worries calmed him a little, maybe the cake Tojo gave him made it shorten just a little more, maybe the fact Saihara was slowly getting repaired himself like a robot made the tightrope just a little safer, maybe the feeling of Momota’s hatred fueled him to run across, maybe he was slowly towering above all his thoughts and getting ready to jump off the water that splashed away at the waves.

Ouma rubs at the tight feeling of his neck, taking a deep breath as it flows silently away. His checkered scarf is there instead. A checkered scarf, shaking as he stepped forward on the bridge.

Maybe he was ready to play one more game with himself. _Though that’s a lie_.

“God, I really am slowly going insane, aren’t I?” Ouma said, pushing his forehead with the tip of his pale fingers. “Actually, don’t answer- Oh wait, you can’t answer. You aren’t real, right.” His reflection smiles at him, it was small, short, and replaced with a wide grin, but that was all it took for Ouma.

The voice responds to him, this time, this dream if there was another dream like this.

“Yep. But that’s a lie-” 

And then Ouma wakes up. _Again_. 

Another day, another dream. But... he can remember what happened yesterday, he can remember when he woke up surrounded by familiar faces, familiar characteristics of them as he opened his tightly closed eyes, pain from his stomach rushing back.

And he can remember the look on Saihara’s face when Ouma laughed at how shocked everyone was. And he can remember the clear-as-day apology Momota gave to him right before Ouma told him he’ll be making fun of him for the rest of his life now and the priceless angered look. And he can remember the taste of the food Tojo fed him, the stupid way Akamatsu flashed him a smile. And how much he was going to tease K1-B0 once he saw him, or the future plans he had on tricking Yonaga to paint him a stupid portrait. 

Ouma might barf up this food later, and get an impending headache from Momota’s loud voice that shook the walls, and feel like shit from his insides out from the warmth Saihara handed him, and regret ever looking at Amami again and want to abandon the memories of the death of him, and want to poison himself from the touch of Harukawa, somebody that was ready to stab him at any second during the game. Or the trusting eyes of Gokuhara follow his gaze or the way Iruma seemed so friendly, carefree now, and want to have died in their place instead.

But it all felt so _right_. And for a second, Ouma wonders about the outside world. How DICE is doing, how SHSL_SHITPOSTER was doing, if he was going to receive his letter at all. Maybe, maybe not, Ouma guesses it will take some time.

He can only guess everything will take some time. He knows how sick he will feel after this, how horrid the emotions that pour out of him will feel them. He has to give himself time, play the game he set up for himself, bury his hopes and dreams, then shovel them out of the hole.

Kokichi Ouma had a schedule. Neat and simple. He had a very neat schedule that didn’t exist. And it didn’t exist because everything was simply changing, spinning to something else despite what he likes, what he wants, and what he doesn’t need. 

He’ll check his mailbox, after a week, and then after that week, and maybe the next. He’ll wait very patiently for SHSL_SHITPOSTER’s reply… 

Ah, fuck. He left all the other mail still waiting at the mailbox.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a gift fic for a reader of mine, SHSL_SHITPOSTER. I thought it would be nice, I guess, but I had no idea what to write, honestly. So I just went with the flow. But then I realized how many puns there were. First of all, really? Post-game? And then SHSL_SHITPOSTER posting letters to Ouma? I didn't even realize it, so it's just funny to me.  
> Honestly, this took me three days to write, because my sleep schedule is a mess and as a student, I have a lot of time... because I actually do my homework early. I'm not a nerd, I swear- Anyways. You can tell me any mistakes I put, or tell me if I missed any tags, or say anything in the comments, or kudos this if you like this! I would appreciate it.  
> Thank you for liking my writing and I hope you have a good day!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dear, SHSL_SHITPOSTER](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836810) by [Ouma_Kokichi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ouma_Kokichi/pseuds/Ouma_Kokichi), [SfrogPlus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SfrogPlus/pseuds/SfrogPlus)




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